The Cycle
by TXOFan
Summary: Shepard had lived this war countless times, tried countless variations to the scenario, only to once again awaken in the Normandy on the mission that would govern his life, plagued by an irresistible compulsion to follow a set series of events over and over again. Not this time. This time, he was free. This time, he was going to end this seemingly endless war.


Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to the Mass Effect trilogy or any of its related materials.

AN: Well, here goes my first shot at writing for the Mass Effect universe. It's a bit of an odd one, inspired by a question that I found interesting: What might it be like for the poor character who has to keep going through the same story every time the fans play it...and what if he/she suddenly didn't have to listen to the rules anymore? Hope you enjoy the story.

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The asari and krogan boasted lifespans of over one thousand years. For many races, though they might understand it from an intellectual point of view, so many years of life was difficult to truly comprehend. To the particularly short-lived races, such as the Salarians and Vorcha, it was nearly impossible. To John Shepard, on the other hand, watching the activities of the ancient Matriarchs – the technological and cultural idols of the galaxy – was more akin to watching infants at play. Perhaps in this life, with this body of a mere twenty-nine years, such an arrogant and outlandish claim would result in nothing short of being committed to a psychiatric ward if he spoke it aloud, at least without any indication of humor.

However, this physical body meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. His physical form had been destroyed and recreated so many times that it no longer merited any real attention. More important was that his mind had inhabited each and every one of those bodies, relived the same experiences of those three years, relentlessly, over and over again. If one were to compare his years of experience to that of the rest of the galaxy's population, rather than the number of years this particular body existed, then only the Reapers and their creators could boast greater lifespans. Indeed, as the Vorcha, who might be lucky to reach thirty years of age, could scarcely comprehend the millennia-long lives of the Asari and Krogan, even the most ancient of their races would find their minds desperately trying – and failing – to grasp the extent of his life.

Or lives, as it were, given that he had yet to experience even thirty-three years without interruption, sometimes as a war hero and survivor of Mindoir, others a military child with the trauma of Akuze, and others still as an orphan of Earth who butchered the batarians at Torfan. Honestly, even Shepard couldn't claim to know how ancient his mind had grown. The first time he remembered, he hadn't even been aware of his previous experiences, but instead vaguely recalled the most general events of the past cycle, and assumed that his decisions were driven by instinct. The second time, his memories came more clearly, but still so little that they could be dismissed as dreams, or perhaps nightmares, triggered by the stress of his mission and its revelations.

The third time, there was no question that something was wrong. His knowledge of events was too perfect to chalk up to instinct or the workings of a tired mind. He tried to change the events, to alter his final decision, to synthesize rather than control. Yet again, he found himself waking aboard the Normandy. And so he chose destruction, and once again awoke in that same bunk, on that same ship, preparing for that same fateful mission to Eden Prime. With the final decision failing to prevent his return, he tried to alter history, to change the options in the final hours of the war themselves rather than his decision on which option to enforce, but found he was limited.

He could not change the course of events, even if he could change various details. On Noveria, for example, he could free the Rachni Queen or destroy her. He could aid Gianna in revealing Anoleis' corruption, or rat her out and reinforce Anoleis' position. He could even change his small talk, learning different things about the guards, and the scientists, and the victims of Saren and Benezia's crimes with every visit to Noveria. Yet no matter his choices, no matter how he altered certain events, he was compelled to travel to Noveria, no matter how he wished otherwise. He could not avoid it. He could not even attempt to warn his comrades of what he knew. He could merely observe as the same scenarios played out, changing only aspects of those scenarios.

Upon that realization, he attempted to work with the details, to find that perfect combination of events that would end the cycle. He changed events that could shape the galaxy – he abandoned the Council to die rather than saved them, killed Saren rather than redeemed him, sabotaged the genophage cure rather than freed the krogan from their suffering. He changed events that made little difference – he removed Chorban from the equation rather than scanning the keepers, allowed Wrex to kill Fist rather than confront him without his krogan friend, refused to help Shiala rewrite the Zhu's Hope medical contracts rather than speak to the bitter Asari who denied them. Eventually, he reached the desperately low point of changing even the most miniscule and seemingly irrelevant of details – picking up one less turian insignia, surveying one less mineral deposit, purchasing one less armory license.

He'd lived countless careers with countless specialties. Sometimes, he was a dealer of death in the traditional sense, bringing destruction with a vast array of firearms. Sometimes he was a talented biotic, crushing and burning and ripping his enemies with fine control over mass effect fields. Sometimes, he was a master of technologies, turning the greatest advantages of modern civilization against his enemies. Sometimes, he found himself learning combinations of these skills, a biotic with weapons expertise, or a soldier with technical experience. Yet no matter his individual mastery or wide versatility, when it came to an end, he awoke aboard the Normandy once more, knowing how to use the skills but finding himself forced to learn them again before he could put that knowledge to use, victimized by some unexplainable mental block.

At times, he rose from his bunk in the Normandy to find he was a woman, and others to find he was a man. Sometimes he was blonde, others brunette. He didn't care to count how often his facial features changed from one millennium to another, nor how many names he'd taken aside from John and Jane. He'd grown to love so many of his teammates, all of them holding a different place in his heart in different times, in different lives. In many ways, he knew them better than he knew himself; where their histories and characters remained consistent, his own past, skills, and mind changed every three years, or even less in some instances.

Oh, yes, there were numerous times when his efforts ended well before the Crucible. More than once he lost hope, simply allowing himself to fall to the geth on Eden Prime, or the mercenaries hunting Archangel, or the husks invading Earth, hoping that perhaps the true end was as simple as finding the proper moment to accept death. It made no difference, really. He'd stopped counting how many times he tried to change things after the first few thousand combinations, when he began making minute changes rather than more significant ones, and by the time he'd resorted to allowing his own death, keeping track had lost any purpose.

So once again, he opened his eyes to the familiar ceiling of the Normandy, already hearing the chatter from the crew, ingrained into his brain after the first half century of hearing it repeated, and took a moment to close his eyes and wish that he could just stay where he rested.

And, as his eyelids shot open again, he found himself doing precisely that. He felt no compulsion to stand. He felt no irresistible desire to walk to the bridge, and hear Joker and Kaiden talking before Anderson called him to explain the true nature of their mission. He paused, opening and clenching a fist, feeling the energy of a mass effect field run through his body as he pulsed it, testing for its presence. Slowly, he pushed himself to stand, looking around to ensure he hadn't finally gone mad.

It was all here. The same Normandy, the same people going about their business, the same smells, and sights, and sounds he'd come to know far more intimately than he'd have ever expected or wanted. He moved to his locker, dressing himself, donning the armor that carried him through those ages of battle and conflict. When he reached for his sidearm, he hesitated, not daring to hope…

He knew the pistol the instant his fingers touched it. He knew exactly how to convert its ammunition into different forms, empowering them with the ability to burn or freeze. He knew how to make a concussive explosion rather than a simple slug, how to charge them with biotics so they twisted and warped through mass effect fields. He focused for a moment, feeling the familiar sensation of adrenaline coursing through his body, the world slowing to a crawl around him, every scent and sound amplified a dozen times over, brought to the forefront of his mind rather than skirting the edge of awareness.

More than that, as it faded, he gathered his energy, charged his biotics, and instantly found what he sought. There was no block between his knowledge and his ability. If he wished, he could form this power into a lash, learned from the Queen of Omega, and whip his enemies about the room. He could encase himself in the field, walling his body off from the sting of bullets and plasma. He could fling a volatile ball of energy that would detonate on impact, shattering its target and everything nearby. Never, in any previous cycle, had he possessed these skills to this degree. That he would be capable of his technological feats was all but a foregone conclusion, given the ease with which even previously contradictory powers were coming to him now.

He began making his way toward the bridge, unable to remove the smirk from his face or the lightness from his step, for the first time in eons knowing that he made this choice because it was exactly that: a choice. Shepard had lived this war countless times, tried countless variations to the scenario, only to once again awaken in the Normandy on the mission that would govern his life, plagued by an irresistible compulsion to follow a set series of events over and over again. Not this time. This time, he was free. This time, he was going to end this seemingly endless war.

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AN: Well, that's one chapter down. To all of those who gave it a shot, thanks for your time! I'd love to hear what you think.


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